


The Altar

by cukibola



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Light Angst, Smut, at least there was an attempt, happy brithday Mordred!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:48:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23944957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cukibola/pseuds/cukibola
Summary: Mordred looks for a certain type of revenge against Arthur, and finds Gwenhyvwar alone in a chapel...
Relationships: Guinevere/Mordred (Arthurian)
Kudos: 12





	The Altar

The castle’s chapel was a cold, dreary one, especially at night. It was summer, so it was hardly a cold one, yet there was something in the pale moonlight reflecting on the hard stone that made Mordred chill. Back in Orkney and Shetland the churches were as humble as this one, but they were built bearing in mind potential Viking attacks, the last thing they would need was putting their gold there. Even the Lothian ones were more beautiful! But this chapel belonged to Camelot, the golden capital, where were the decorated walls, the obscenely rich statues and the velvety carpet that would show this place as belonging to a king? Nowhere.   
In fact, the only thing that belonged to a king in that room was his wife. His spurned wife, to be more exact. Gwenhyvwar had fancied herself as a proud, unstained queen whose husband had appeared with a bastard under his arm. Everyone in Camelot remembered her shouts and screams at him, and even Mordred had considered she had taken matters too far, considering that Arthur was under a spell during the conception of the sadly named Merlin Ambrosius. She had probably imagined it was a lie, an excuse, and had expected Arthur falling on his knees, asking her to forgive him, to forget such a terrible mistake, embracing her while crying like a martyred statue looking for his god’s misericord. At the time, it hadn’t come across as foolish, but misguidedly cruel. Who knew, maybe that had been the way she had had to cope after Llacheu’s death. Now, it had come back to bite her. 

But, of course, how was she supposed to know that Arthur’s previous wife, the sweet and caring Tryphine of Munster, would return? How was she supposed to guess that she had been hiding in Orkney under the great care of Morgause? And how was she supposed to know that Arthur would then fall—if he hadn’t done before already—for Tryphine and walk this royal mistress/true wife—depending on who you asked—around, giving her the attention and love that had once belonged to Gwenhyvwar and Gwenhyvwar only? She was still the queen, and Mordred knew Arthur would never divorce her like that, but now the gossips and whispers had returned stronger than ever, and they had stabbed her so hard, she was now praying to a God she didn’t believe in. Her back shivered when she felt Mordred’s hand on her shoulder, going out of her trance.   
“Mind if I join you?” he asked, with a smile so false it came as authentic. Gwenhyvwar invited him to kneel besides her place, in front of the stony gray altar with that creepy statue of Mary. 

Galahad would have seen that same statue so many times, Mordred thought. Had he also been freaked out by those big, inexpressive, dead eyes? He wished he could ask him, but it was now too late, he remembered. They had probably substituted his unfound body with a statue that had attempted to imitate his long blond curls, his paleness and his blue eyes; if it had looked like that mess of spirals that failed to represent a maternal hug, they had probably insulted his memory. Gwenhyvwar was looking now at him, probably distracted by a betraying tear, and she offered him her embroidered handkerchief. 

This handkerchief with a great G on it would have been enough to set his plan in motion already, but that didn’t stop him. If there was something he needed now more than ever was personal revenge against Arthur, to avenge the fallen angel that had gone to a suicidal mission in the name of this king. He thanked Gwenhyvwar, who, with a smile he surprisingly found sweet—was he on his role already, or had it been a genuine reaction?—told him to keep it. Mordred barely smiled, muttering some more words of gratitude. She closed her eyes, put the palm of her hands together and, leaning on the altar, continued her pray. 

It had never been a hard plan, Gwenhyvwar was already beautiful. They whispered that her dark hue, her curls and even the beauty mark on her cheek were the proof of the incest committed by Creiddylad and Gwynn, more even than her name. If there was Mordred knew for sure is that he wasn’t the son of Lleu, no matter how hard his mother had insisted on it. Neither he, nor Clarissant had the same solar powers that manifested so easily on Gawain, Gareth and Teneu—who knew if also on Soredamor, Mordred had never met her—and so strangely on Agravaine and Graeria. Both of them were ridiculously human; sometimes he hoped he wasn’t Jascaphin’s, but to be fair, he doubted his mother had ever laid with that pathetic attempt of a man. He knew what it was like, to know when people weren’t looking at him but at his ancestry, insulting his great clan with terrible accusations of incest, rape and depravation, so he had always felt sympathy for her on that regard. Now this sympathy was—out of a desire to complete his plan or another type of desire—turning into something else:

She was wearing a blue sleeping gown that made her body stand out, marking her hips and giving him a view of her loose breasts through the cleavage. They weren’t exaggeratedly large, but neither were they little. He saw the moonlight reflecting on them, shiny as the same altar, and began wondering what they would look like completely exposed for his eyes, for his hands, even for his tongue. He wondered what she would look like naked for him, his hands on her body, hers on his, running free through his back, opening her legs, grabbing his hair with violence, guiding him towards her… 

“Mordred!” she called him out, anger flashing on her eyes, “Are you looking at my breasts?!”

“No, my aunt, my High Queen!” he lied, and he knew it was a terrible lie the one coming out from his mouth, but it was the best for this situation, “I like your necklace, that’s all!”

She didn’t mention she wore no necklace, and in fact it seemed that part of her anger was gone. She once again closed her eyes, Mordred hoping she was remembering the way he had licked his lips while lost on his imagination. If she remembered so, would she compare it with the way Arthur looked at Tryphine with starry bright eyes? Would she think of the way he was now looking at her as merely a one of the other members of the Round Table, or a sister at best, rather than a wife? Arthur had committed a terrible mistake, that he knew already; but now he was considering if he had committed two, especially when he spotted a new trail of tears running through her face. Quickly he offered her the same handkerchief, although she rejected it as politely as she could. 

“I still think you may need it better than everyone else; you young knights are always falling and brushing yourselves!” she then tried to put one of her brightest smiles, those that would illuminate her face with its own light, but she failed. He didn’t care. 

“You’re talking as if you were thousands of years old!” 

“Haven’t they told you? I am this island, and as such I am eons.”

“That I knew already; and while you’re wise beyond the ages, your body isn’t old at all.”

“I could be your mother.”

At the mention of his mother he just shut up. His mother was now gone, gone forever. Gwenhyvwar realized her mistake, and quickly threw her arms at his neck, softly embracing him. Morgause was not bad or evil, but if she had embraced him he couldn’t remember; so he embraced Gwenhyvwar back, burying his face between her shoulder and neck. While he didn’t cry, he could feel the sadness clinging on him. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” he heard while she stroke his hair. She smelled like grass, like the sea and like daffodils; he was intoxicated, he needed more. 

“It’s alright, my High Queen, it’s alright” he whispered, without moving his position. 

“You know you can call me Gwenhyvwar,” usually she would have said “aunt”. 

“Gwenhyvwar,” he repeated in low voice, still submerged in her fragrance and her skin. She didn’t attempt to release him. 

It wasn’t a long time until they broke apart, but for Mordred it had been an entire life. He smiled at her, a sincere smile in this case. Gwenhyvwar stood up and helped him do so, still holding hands. Her eyes were shining, and she dedicated him another of her smiles, of those that would enlighten even the darkest rooms, although it started flickering seconds after, and so she adverted his gaze and retired her hands, placing them on the cold stone. 

“Mordred, make me a promise,” she whispered, her voice suddenly serious. 

“Anything for you, Gwenhyvwar.”

A bitter laugh, “promise me that, if you ever find a woman for you or you even get married, that you would never treat your wife as a mere mate.” A bitter voice, it was the moment. 

“Of course.”

“You have no idea how it feels like to not be considered apt for a wife anymore.”

“I do think you’re still more than apt to be wife,” he answered with great passion, and that made Gwenhyvwar turn to him again, a turmoil of emotions on her face.   
Mordred leaned towards her, saving their height difference, grabbed her waist and then kissed her without any second thought. Her lips were soft, but he could only enjoy them for a second, as Gwenhyvwar pulled from him and then slapped him. Mordred raised his fingers towards the reddened cheek, but soon felt Gwenhyvwar’s grip on his face, making him look at her. Quickly she pulled his face close to hers and next thing Mordred knew she was now kissing him, trapping his lips with hers and invading his mouth with her tongue. Her hands run from his face to his neck and finally to the tunic’s belt, which soon fell to the stone floor with a metallic sound. It was then that Mordred got back to his senses, yielding to her kiss as her tongue caressed every corner of his palate, feeling like trails of fire. As he was running out of air, his tongue would then try its best to even caress hers, but at that moment she broke the kiss apart and looked at him. 

His face was all red, he could feel it, and his breath was heavy. Apparently Gwenhyvwar was proud of such an image, with her fingers now playing with his black hair. Mordred once again gripped her waist and pulled her close to him as she pulled his head down for another kiss, a more passionate one as Mordred now could participate on it, trying to capture her as she had done before, not knowing that she was the queen and he a mere knight for a reason. His hands were also quicker this time, running down to her ass. Gwenhyvwar jumped a bit when he nailed his fingers on it, and Mordred then could lower his head to her neck, again going mad with her smell, kissing it. A soft moan indicated him he was doing well and without any hesitation he licked where he had kissed before, pressing his tongue against her warm skin, letting her now be the one to grab his butt and draw him near until her back was touching the damned altar. 

Still clinging to him, Gwenhyvwar sat on the cold stone, sprawling her legs open. Mordred took out his tunic and chemise, letting her see his pale and svelte body more appropriated for a squire than for a fully trained knight, and that reminded people of a snake. But Gwenhyvwar’s gaze soon diverted to his groin, as on his stocking now his rather powerful erection was more than clear. Had he been able to do so, he would have flushed. “I took off my tunic, I think you now have to…” he wanted to say, but was interrupted at the sight of her taking off that damned nightgown at last, and then she threw it to his face, laughing. 

He quickly got rid of that damned blue fabric, and what he had expected didn’t disappoint him: Gwenhyvwar, although still wearing some short breeches, had fulfilled his wish, as her breasts were on fully display for him, goose pimpled and with those dark, pointy nipples that were begging for his attention. Even before Gwenhyvwar would guide him, Mordred was already kissing her chest, seeing how she stood up to help him, listening to her whimpering sounds she did at the contact of his lips. His erection was starting to become painful, trapped in the tight fabric, but her steady hands undid the laces and pulled down both stockings and underwear. He couldn’t help but to sigh in relief first, and moan as she grabbed his hard cock. 

In a matter of seconds her underwear was gone, and, impatient as he was, in one shove Mordred had buried himself in her wet cunt, making Gwenhyvwar gasp loudly in surprise. Her nails would left marks on his back, and her inner walls were too tight even to move, but that only made him more excited than before, once again licking his lips unconsciously. And the queen liked that gesture, overcoming the surprise and relaxing her muscles, until she whispered on his ear with deep voice she wanted, no, commanded, him to move. To sign the order, she licked his ear and bit the earlobe. Mordred sighed and did as she said: moving his hips backwards, and quickly thrusting in again, earning a loud scream that echoed in the chapel. A devilish smile appeared on his face, thinking on how he would fuck Arthur’s wife on the altar they had sworn their marriage vows, and that Gwenhyvwar must have found attractive, grabbing his chin and licking his lips. Her invitation to another kiss was welcomed, and Mordred kept his rhythm on his penetrations, the friction driving him mad with pleasure. 

“Faster, Mordred, faster,” she hissed after separating, when the thread of saliva between them broke. There was something in the way she said his name, in the way she screamed it with every push, and how it coordinated with her hips receiving him, that made him forget about anything else. He only wanted to make her love now, to make her keep shouting “Mordred, oh, Mordred” once and again, as fast as he could get now. In a heated moment, he knocked down that image of Mary, breaking apart and making a loud crash. Gwenhyvwar seemed distracted, thinking that somebody may have heard it, but Mordred then made her back lie on the stone, and his body over hers. He was surprised as his hands looked for hers, and how nice it felt when her fingers tangled with him; he almost forgot this was for revenge. How lucky then, that she then crossed her legs, trapping him, telling him to keep going on. And Mordred did so, deeper and deeper, his warm breath on her neck, and soon seeing her nipples again. 

His tongue made its way over her right breast, making her mad with anticipation, shivering as the tip run over that holly areola, grunting on his delay to take it fully on his mouth. “Do it,” she almost begged—she would never beg, she was the proud High Queen of Britain, the proud land of Britain, a true Rigantona made flesh—between her teeth, relieved when Mordred complied. It was salty due to the sweat, and ended up reddened once he had freed it. Out of pleasure, her vagina became tighter, and while it made more difficult for him to move, he had to admit he liked the way his dick was trapped on that embrace, enjoying this sensation… to the point he felt warmth on his lower stomach and his legs began to tremble. Gwenhyvwar made him rise his face to look at her. Her lips were puffier due to their kisses, her eyes shone with lust and her hair was messy and bright. Such an image only aroused him more. “Don’t come yet.”

“But, Gwenhyvwar…” he begged, dripping already. 

“Don’t come yet,” she repeated, and while her hard and stern tone, and the dignity she still had even if naked and sweaty under her nephew, certainly didn’t help for him, Mordred   
had no other way out but to clench his teeth and try to think of something else to help himself follow her rhythm. He repeated and repeated himself he was doing this to mess up with Arthur, who had sent Galahad to his death and had been unable to avenge his mother; to mess up with the Round Table, dividing it between supporters and detractors of this same queen that embraced him moaning in his ear, indirectly ruining Arthur and those who had mocked and insulted his family all this time in the process; and maybe he was doing it for Gwenhyvwar as well, to give her some happiness in such a hard time. 

Such a strange charm worked, and he was hard again. Gwenhyvwar knew better, Mordred realized when her body arched against his and her inner and outer embrace tightened. She screamed his name again—his name, not Arthur’s or another, supposedly better knight’s; no, a clear “Mordred” to be engraved in the chapel forever—and again. He realized he was doing the same, but his orgasm was more sudden, more explosive, with his cum flowing out in great speed—at least he felt like that—and collapsing over Gwenhyvwar. Both were panting, regaining their breath slowly. It was easy to come out of her due to her own fluids as well, his cock now sticky with them. Gawain had always told him to be good and chivalrous with ladies, so Mordred lowered down to her wet cunt, licking both bitter and salty liquids from it. Before she could have yet another climax, she incorporated and made him rise. She kissed him one last time, a chaste kiss in comparison to the others that utterly confused him. 

“This can’t happen again,” she finally said, leaving the altar and looking for her clothes. 

“Why not? It wasn’t that bad!”

“I’m a married woman, Mordred!” 

“Does that even matter?” why was he trying to convince her to start an affair? He had what he wanted and needed: he had fucked Arthur’s wife, and not only that, he had done so on their wedding altar. He also had her handkerchief, which he could use to clean himself and then hand it completely sticky to Agravaine and Rickard, claiming he had found it so in some chambers, and so they could prove at last that they weren’t two paranoids obsessed with the queen’s sexual life. Why convince her to repeat? “I know you won’t like what I’m about to say, but being married doesn’t stop your husband from shagging other woman.” 

She didn’t like it, judging for her furious gaze and the way she stormed off from there, grunting something Mordred couldn’t decipher. However, Gwenhyvwar ended up coming to her senses in the end, inviting Mordred to her bed so many times from then on, he wasn’t even surprised when she announced she was pregnant again.


End file.
